


like a fine wine

by ineffablemercury



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Romance, as poetic as i'll get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablemercury/pseuds/ineffablemercury
Summary: Love is different for the both of them, yet almost entirely the same.





	like a fine wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls/gifts).



> so i listened to too much céline dion (i.e, [that one song](https://youtu.be/WNIPqafd4As)) and then this manifested itself.

For Crowley, love is in all the little things.

It’s that roll of the eyes, and that exasperated, yet affectionate look through golden-rimmed glasses. It’s that dimply little curl of the lips, barely noticeable by anyone who doesn’t know the angel, _fully know him_ , like only Crowley does. It’s the complicated swirls of golden locks, styled somewhat _un-angelically_ , but perfect nonetheless. It’s the aroma of old tea leaves, and dusty first editions, and honey-scented shampoo. It’s that feeling of losing himself in _endlessly_ blue eyes, richer than pure sapphires and deeper than the ocean itself.

For Aziraphale, love is the exact opposite, yet completely the same. 

It is the familiar scent of ozone and cinnamon and citrus, one that he has deemed his favourite over the centuries. It is the mischievous glint in those golden eyes, serpentine, but strangely _tender_. It is the sweet callousness of those hands, rougher than his own, yet no less loving when they tighten around his fingers. It is the croon of that voice, soft and teasing, but not cruel, _never_ cruel. It is the grin that usually snakes up the demon’s face when something amusing occurs, toothy and desperately roguish. It is the angles of his body, sharp curves and pale skin, each and every inch completely familiar to the angel. 

They are meant to be converse: angel and demon, Heaven and Hell, good and evil. But in reality, they are _anything_ but. 

They are two halves of the same heart, two parts of the same soul. They complete each other in ways so incomprehensible, ways that only those in love could ever truly understand a _fraction_ of. Their love is that which poets strive to capture the essence of, and fail miserably, for even words cannot fully express it. Their love is that which has been built up over the centuries, tried and tested, yet never broken. Their love is that which is shared between trips to the Ritz, and strolls through St. James’, and quiet, peaceful moments in their respective abodes.  

It is amorous, ardent, and, depending on who you ask, _ineffable_. 

**Author's Note:**

> this came out much soppier than intended, i apologise!


End file.
